Recent studies on Japanese quail and coho salmon have proved what most intelligent women have known for a long time: The large, aggressive "alpha male" is not necessarily the choicest mate.

For research purposes, scientists staged what, if it happened in an abandoned warehouse in Oklahoma, would have been called a cockfight. While the virgin female quail preferred the winners, the females who had been around the block a few times often chose the loser of the fight.

Similarly, the female salmon mate more often with smaller males than with the larger ones. The hypothesis is that the earlier maturation of the smaller males is viewed as a sign of quality, and also that the female salmon realize that less-agressive males make better mates.

In my personal research on this subject, I have found that the suitability of beta-male mates carries over into our own species. While many women go for huge, aggressive guys like "The Rock" and Kobe Bryant, smarter women realize that regular-size, intelligent males are our best bets both for furthering the evolution of our species and often for our own survival.

Now, that's not to say that alpha males are all bad. After all, there are many big, aggressive guys who are also intelligent and nonabusive. And the women who like those kind of guys can have them. As for me (and countless other smart grrls), give me a scrappy guy like Gael Garcia Bernal or Jude Law; a low-key, considerate, affectionate guy such as Al Gore; a brilliant but down-to-earth guy like Albert Schweitzer or Stephen Hawking; or all of the above rolled into one, the inimitable Mr. Wastrel.

Big alpha guys make great models, strippers and "Joe Millionaires," but the great romantic heroes of our time have typically been those wiry men with a sense of humor, poetry in their limbs, a sharp intellect, and lines better than "Ah'll be bahck." Frank Sinatra? Not a brawny man. Hugh Grant? Everything about him screams "beta male." Ricky Martin? Never going to win a fight. Noah Wyle? Skinny, nonconfrontational, and beloved by women across America.

So-called "beta" males rule, not just because they won't beat us up. They are better rounded. Their lack of massive muscles means they've got to use their wits, their speed and their social skills to get where they want to go. Ultimately, the alpha male's strength becomes his weakness, and the quicker, smarter beta male's supposed weakness is a catalyst for the development of strengths that make him a more viable mate than the "obvious" choice.

To beta males everywhere! To the computer nerds, the writers, the artists and the sexy guitar players. Don't ever take protein supplements or go on MTV's "Tough Enough." We love you just the way you are!

Last night, after several weeks of scheduling conflicts, I finally sat down for what was supposed to be the highlight of my week: "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy."

But despite the hilarious critiquing of the Straight Guy's skidmarked undies, and the gratification of watching his terrifically unhip cowboy fashion turn into urban-cool cowboy fashion (not to mention the gratuitous eybrow-waxing!), I didn't like "Queer Eye" nearly as much as I thought I would.

Not that it wasn't glorious. It's a great show.

But the Fabulous Five were indeed so very fabulous that watching the show served only to highlight the fact that, while I like to fancy myself a decoratrix, I am about as domesticated as a sewer rat.

While the Fab Five dress their diamond-in-the-rough in Roberto Cavalli and give him fancy hair products and styling advice, I have been known to glue my favorite hard-to-find shoes back together with Shoe Goo rather than throw them away, and have suffered several near-scalpings because of my poor round-brush skills.

As they fill chocolate boxes (no, not cardboard containers that once held Russell Stover samplers -- boxes made out of chocolate) with homemade mousse and raspberries, I am reminded that the last thing I cooked was canned soup, and that was about three weeks ago. And the crowning glory of my culinary design career was putting Gummi worms in the bottom of a punchbowl.

The creation of an outdoor canopy bed thingie, with grass bought especially for the occasion to carpet picnickers and lovely drapery hung from God knows where to provide atmosphere, is a brutal reminder that I haven't weeded my flowerbed since mid-May and that an elaborate koi pond does not magically appear in the backyard regardless of how much one wishes it.

And the fact that the Fab Five, in a mere few days, managed to turn a sterile bachelor pad into an artfully decorated, warmly-colored haven serves as too much of a contrast from my home, which I've lived in for a year and a half and which has nothing on the walls. Anywhere. And whose breakfast room was supposed to be painted in spring of 2002, but is still the same color above and below the chair rail. And whose dust bunnies date back to Saddam's regime.

Now, I'm domesticated enough to get by; my clothing matches and is flattering, I use hair product often and effectively, everybody gets fed somehow (thank you, Pepperoni Grill!) and while there is no art on my walls, my furniture is extremely cool. But dammit, these guys make me look bad -- and now they're sharing their secrets with straight guys. Pretty soon, it's just gonna be me and the farmers left.

I appreciate, men of "Queer Eye," that you are filling the world with beauty and creativity, and god knows the straight guys need all of that they can get, but please! You are going too far!

Rather than being entertaining, your show is depressing and demoralizing. There is such a thing as being too good, my dear Fabulous Five, and you are too good. Now whenever I look around my house, I am disappointed in the lack of designer linens, the paucity of accessories, the fact that my walls don't reflect some color from my furniture.

Where, people, is "Queer Eye for the Chick Who Can't Cook or Clean or Use a Round Brush Without Harming Herself"? Do I really have to get a sex change for you to take me shopping, paint my walls and show me how to create desserts that put Martha Stewart to shame?

No, I am going back to "Trading Spaces," which instead of being depressing offers up a good dose of schadenfreude as people return to find Grandma's vanity covered in purple crackle paint. And Martha, of course, whose stunning achievements in things domestic are tempered by the fact that she is a deadly titanium cyborg.

Don't feel bad, Fab Five. I still think your show is perfect. It's just a little too perfect.

I have gone for years and years knowing I have ADD and taking no medication whatsoever. (It doesn't help that I totally forgot about my followup appointment where I was supposed to get the medication, and then forgot to reschedule for five years.) And I think I have done OK without meds, as far as school and work are concerned.

But yesterday the UCO advisement office brought my lack of ability to concentrate on certain things into sharp perspective.

Not that they said anything about my distractibility. From my transcript (if one ignores the B's in half my Bible classes, which I managed to get despite being a preacher's kid), no one would guess that I have ADD. I'm a reasonably intelligent person who works very hard, and that's reflected in my GPA.

But it was my transcript that got me into trouble anyway. Amid the good grades, extracurriculars and interesting electives, the adviser spied a big problem. I did not take any college math.

That is not to say I have no math credits, because I scored high on my CLEP and consequently received credit for the basic math requirement. But since my good computational skills saved my ass from taking college math, that means I've got nothing more than two years of high-school algebra under my belt. I also have no credits in college algebra, and more importantly, as it is a prerequisite for physics classes, no plane trigonometry. I don't have to take algebra, but the adviser said a lot of students do poorly in chemistry if they're not up to speed on their college algebra.

I knew that I would need to take trig, but I was really not expecting to have to take another algebra course in my life. Although I have a good brain for math when I need to do it, and I enjoyed primes, square roots and geometry, I would sooner be lobotomized by a hot poker through the eyesocket than to solve for n. Anything involving the multiplication of polynomials plunges me into sweaty, fight-or-flight panic. It almost literally hurts to think about algebra. I can feel my brain straining to break free of the constraints of my skull, where it can run far, far away to a happy place where quadratic equations do not exist.

I'm sure my irrational hatred of math would exist with or without medication. But I can't help but suspect it would be easier if I could remember the order of operations, and if I didn't forget what I was doing halfway through the equation and have to start over, and if it wasn't just plain screaming torture to even devote one brain cell to thinking about something I'm not particularly fond of. And it would be nice to be able to memorize things, too. That might come in handy in, say, medical school.

Since I am apparently facing a semester of algebra, a semester of trig, two semesters of physics and four semesters of chemistry, I am going to break down and get a prescription for Strattera. It is not a stimulant and stays in the system longer, meaning I will be able to concentrate in the morning (rather than "waking up" after lunch), and while the side effects like insomnia and nausea may be sucky, it is certainly better than trying to learn a mathematical concept for three hours and forgetting it all by the next day.

This week's Official Wastrel Movie Recommendation features yet another makeover-porn masterpiece. But this is not your mother's makeover movie.

Last night, Mr. Wastrel and I borrowed the DVD of "May from Eric and Stacia. It was part love story, part makeover story, part comedy, part grisly horror flick.

This is going to be a short post because I don't want to spoil the film, but if you like witty, fun horror movies, run -- don't walk -- to your local video store and rent "May" ASAP.

As "May" treads the line between comedy and character study, it's hard to know whether to laugh, sympathize or cringe in horror as the deeply weird protagonist futilely tries to make and keep friends. The last half-hour was a bit much in the gore department, and some of the scenarios (it creeps me out that I'm saying this, because it's May's line) are a bit far-fetched, in terms of physics.

Overall, though, this was a refreshing, fun twist on the genre and one that I'd highly recommend to anyone with a strong stomach and a penchant for dark comedy. Its razor wit will leave you in stitches! (Sorry, couldn't help it.)

Always one to succumb to peer pressure, I am doing my very first Friday Five because Deb and Andrea are doing it.

1. If your life were a movie, what would the title be?
"Grrly Show"

2. What songs would be on the soundtrack?
"Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" Cyndi Lauper
"The Magic's in the Makeup" No Doubt
"Get Into the Groove" Madonna
"Rock and Roll All Nite" KISS
"Seether" Veruca Salt
"I Wanna Be Sedated" (Shonen Knife cover)
"Oracle" Kittie
"Beautiful" Christina Aguilera
"Mohammed My Friend" Tori Amos

3. Would it be a live-action film or animated? Why?
Live-action, because I don't want to be Disneyfied.

4. Casting: who would play you, members of your family, friends, etc?
Me: Claire Danes
Mr. Wastrel: Lance Bass
Dad: Warren Beatty
Mom: Dianne Wiest
Nice brother: This male model I saw in Bazaar who is his spitting image.
Crazy brother: Seann William Scott.
Sister: Travel back in time and get Thora Birch when she was 11
Amy: Has no celebrity look-alikes and would not give me permission to use her as a character.
Rebecca: LeeLee Sobieski

5. Describe the movie preview/trailer.
Voiceover:
She works hard (shows a fabulously-attired Claire Danes studying, but not wearing glasses because a grrl can be smart without being deliberately dorky-looking!)
And she plays harder: (shows well-shod Danes doing a variety of party- and sport-like activities)
This summer, "Grrly Show" will give the world a real female action hero.
(Then cut to Claire Danes playing bass in a band and singing a song written by Juliana Hatfield especially for my movie, winning the Stanley Cup, fighting supervillain Rupert Murdoch in a special-effects laden Empire State Building showdown, and curing cancer.)

OK, so it would be loosely based on my life.

To borrow a sentiment from the Dixie Chicks, I am embarrassed that U.S. Rep. John Sullivan is from Oklahoma.

Sullivan apparently thought it was so important to send the Head Start program back to the 19th century that, despite an unfortunate freak air-bag accident, he came into the chamber in a wheelchair to cast the deciding vote. (I guess the House Republicans never considered that maybe God listens to prayers other than Pat Robertson's and that they shouldn't thwart His divine will. Just kidding. God hates Democrats.)

Thanks to Sullivan, Head Start programs can now use federal funds to fire and hire teachers based on their religion. Additionally, the House hatchet job on children's welfare hand over the reins of Head Start programs to eight states as part of a pilot program to decentralize the successful early-childhood education program for at-risk kids.

For someone representing a state that is ranked 41st in terms of child poverty (with No. 50 being the poorest), Sullivan doesn't seem to care much about his constituents. The move towared handing states control over Head Start programs is just a precursor to completely dismantling the program.

Smart move, John! There's nothing like putting responsibility for funding public education in the hands of Oklahoma, where the coffers overflow and administrators are finely attuned to their schools' needs.

Maybe next, the ever-socially-responsible GOP can, oh, I don't know, take some officers off the streets and tell veterans disabled during combat that they can't have a pension.

I am a grrl without shame. And darn proud of it.

Yesterday, at my media job (not to be confused with my electronic publishing job, which actually pays a living wage but is not very fun), several free passes to an advance screening of "Uptown Girls" were left on the counter for the taking.

Now, if they had been free passes for something that had done well at Sundance, or starred John Cusack, or even if they were for a Kevin Smith film, they would have been snapped up in a heartbeat. But who, in a staid, dignified bastion of neatly-attired professionals, is going to pick up tickets for a flick starring one of the supporting actresses from "Clueless" and a 9-year-old?

Your intrepid blogger Wastrel, that's who!

Shrugging off any fears of castigation for enjoying the brain-food equivalent of Pop Rocks, I marched up to the counter and took my good time deciding whether I wanted to watch the Tuesday showing or the Thursday showing.

And next week, while I'm watching my cinematic gem, those poor souls whose dignity got in the way of their ids will be sitting at home --- forced, ironically, to watch "Dog Eat Dog" reruns.

Thanks to a guy at a kiosk in Quail Springs Mall, I am now the proud owner of fabulous supershiny nails. I was walking to Dillard's to exchange some vile, streaky, two-shades-off foundation when a heavily accented man interrupted my state of mallwalking bliss.

I am used to being talked to by heavily accented men, but usually it is a heavy Okie accent. This guy had a mysterious, hard-to-place accent, so I let him ask me if my nails were natural, so I could work on figuring out where he was from. (I am a Nosy Parker.)

I could have told him that they were actually fake nails and I was going for the stubby unpolished recovering-from-a-nightmare-manicure look, but I decided to be nice because I am a sucker for foreign accents.

My nails were actually the worst they have ever looked. The night before we went to Las Vegas, Stacia and I had our nails done. Which is not a good thing for a control freak to do. After the manicure got under way, I noted with horror that one of our manicurist's thumb nails was greenish-yellow and heavily pitted. I can only assume that it was some sort of scary fungus. While I tried to ignore the monstrous ugly nail, she began clipping my cuticles, which struck fear into my heart, as any misstep on her part could raise my infection risk.

My nails looked gorgeous for a scant three days thanks to the slot machines, and while (thanks, I am positive, to copious amounts of antiseptic) I escaped the blight of nail fungus, I noticed after a few weeks that the manicurist had over-sanded my fingernails (or whatever you call it when you abrade the ridges off with a spinning sander thingy). My nails, much like a tree, gave those who looked at them a pretty good idea of my manicure history.

The base of my nails, where the little half-moons peek out, was healthy and clear, with the usual ridges. The growing-out portion, toward my fingertips, was orangey, dull, on a completely different plane from the rest of the nail, and threatening to peel.

My nails were so unattractive that I almost didn't show Accent Guy. But like any good salesperson, he grabbed my hands and assaulted me with one of those 3-step nail-care kits. You know, sand with the lavender side, buff with the white side and shine with the grey side. But he only did it on one nail!

And what a fabulous nail it was! In mere moments, he had turned my embarrassing manicure tragedy into a shiny, healthy-looking work of art. So naturally, I bought the kit. After all, I didn't want my other nails to be jealous.

As soon as I got home, I sanded, buffed and polished all of my nails and I must say that they look fabulous. I can't believe I didn't think of doing this earlier. Except for a few places where the sander went in too deep and left semicircular scars in my nail surface, my first and last manicure is now but a memory. Albeit a really bad memory which may require therapy.

Sometimes, even nose-free, baby-dangling weirdos have a point.

Michael Jackson yesterday blasted legislation that would make unauthorized file sharing a felony. Now, I am no great supporter of the uber-disturbed popster, and I still think he should not be allowed within 1,000 yards of a child, but I've got to give the Gloved One big ups today.

It is likely the only time you will be mentioned on this blog in a positive way, Mikey, so enjoy it. I'm giving you a Wastrel Commendation. Well, a mini one, anyway, just because I can't bear to put up the fancy button that says "You're the shiznit." Maybe more of a Wastrel "You Don't Suck Quite As Much As I Thought You Did" Award.

Anywayyyy ... Thank you, you crazy, child-endangering nutcase, for being in touch with your fans, if not with reality. You changed, and continue to change, the face of the recording industry (although from Britney's prevalence on the airwaves, I suspect you removed the industry's nose along with your own). Despite your truly scary level of superstardom, you haven't forgotten that it's about the music, not the money. Maybe you're a genius, maybe you're a crazy pederast. But whatever else you may be, you, Michael Jackson, are the Anti-Lars. And for that, we thank you.

I am the ultimate punk-rock grrl.

OK, please stop laughing. It's not that funny. OK, it is pretty funny.

But seriously, let me explain. First off, even if you don't believe that the Green Party is punk rock (you dumbass), the whole punk thing is basically about being a nonconformist and hating the fucking fascists. I live in Oklahoma and yet, inexplicably, refuse to drive a Ford F-150. I also despise BushCo. Check, and check.

Most importantly, punk rock is supposed to be about "being yourself." Some people find that being themselves entails going to the retail chain, "Edgy Counterculture R Us," where all the other kids buy mass-produced studded collars to show how original they are. Others need to go to the thrift store and then modify their stinky, moth-eaten finds with scissors, markers and safety pins in order to express their individuality. Back in high school and college, when I had several spare hours in the day to modify decades-old clothing while listening to the Dead Kennedys, I foolishly thought this was the ultimate protest of Gap homogeneity.

But I have reached a state of punk-rock nirvana. I have realized that there are so many people trying to be individuals that they all look pretty much alike. So you know what? I wear and listen to whatever the fuck I want. If I'm going through the mall and see a great pair of slacks on sale at Ann Taylor, I don't stop to weigh whether my friends will mock me for shopping at a preppie store. And when I get home, I don't pull out my knife and modify the slacks.

I wear them to work with a nice dress shirt. Possibly from Gap.

When I walk through the mall, you cannot hear my studded accessories clinking, nor does my hair color shout, "Look at me! I don't care about anything, 'cause I'm punk RAWK!" I also, just to be ironic and bad-ass, own a Patsy Cline CD. And sing along. That, my friends, is truly subversive.

Yes, dressing like a white-collar professional is my way of showing the world that I'm a rebel and I don't give a shit. I can tell it's working, because all the kids with blue hair and overpriced combat-style boots stare at me like I have a third eye or something. I must admit that in this day and age, it is pretty radical not to listen to Good Charlotte and A New-Found Glory, but what can I say? I'm a nonconformist.

PUNK RAWWWK!

Yes, Virginia, there is a Permanent Record.

Most of us have our share of what politicians like to call "youthful indiscretions," and, for those of us who aren't pursuing careers as elected officials, those indiscretions remain right where we left them -- in our youth. Sure, we can pull out the memories, dust them off and laugh knowingly at that brave, foolish teen-ager's reckless naivete. But at the same time, we can leave those crazy escapades in the scrapbook, confident that our trivial miscreance will not matter to those who know us as responsible adults.

There is one exception, however.

On the application for admission to UCO, prospective students are asked whether they were ever put on probation, suspended or expelled from another institution of higher learning. Which was news to me, until Friday.

Now I can understand why schools would want to know if, say, you never showed up for classes, or if you intentionally burned down the student union, or other such infractions. That kind of stuff can affect the statistics the school shows to other prospective students, and its fire insurance policy. However, there should be a statue of limitations on the less-damaging transgressions.

So what if I sneaked out of the dorms in the autumn of 1996? It was fall break, I was there alone, and I had foolishly chosen to watch "The Exorcist" the previous night. Curfew for students who stay over fall break is silly anyway, not to mention putting on disciplinary probation a student who has already learned her lesson, having landed poorly in her ill-conceived exit from the second floor, resulting in the dislocation of her elbow and an ugly compound fracture, as well as a badly sprained ankle. And who also is at the mercy of a home health nurse who won't listen when told that, since this is the last day of antibiotic treatment and since her patient has elusive little veins, she might consider putting the IV in the median cubital vein rather than unsuccessfully trying seven times to find another good vein in the one hand that isn't covered in a cast, and only then deciding that, yes, the inside of said patient's elbow is the way to go.

One would think that was punishment enough. But the dean of students saw it differently and gave me a semester's disciplinary probation. Curfew at a Christian university is not to be toyed with.

Consequently, now I am a Marked Woman! Institutions of higher learning will see the black mark on my academic reputation, great GPA and extracurricular excellence notwithstanding. Admissions counselors will seek cover when I pass.

Civil rights activists are working to restore the rights of people convicted of felonies. But what of the poor souls who violated university curfew? We are forever doomed to live in the shadow of our youthful transgressions. Because believe it or not, those things really do go on your Permanent Record.

Bushies to military spouses: You'll send your loved ones off to die for Halliburton, er, freedom, and like it, dammit!

Yes, apparently, in warhawk opposite-land where we support the constitution by suppressing free speech, and safeguard people's freedom by taking it away, we now thank those who send their spouses off to war by telling them they're in bed with Saddam's regime.

Those damn, unpatriotic military-family bastards! They got no respect for our armed forces. If they really respected our boys in Eye-rack, they'd tell 'em that the Eye-rackies would welcome them with open arms, and that it would be a short war with very few casualties, and that they'd be ridding the world of Saddam's plentiful weapons of mass destruction.

Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. SUV driver, for making our roads safe. I know you care a lot about safety, because that's the reason you say you got your giant gas-guzzling tank. I appreciate your effort to save me from the horror of maiming. If you hit me in a smaller car, I might spend my life as a paraplegic or something. It is kind of you to use a larger vehicle which is sure to put me out of any misery I might feel after you hit me in a vehicle you couldn't control while your ear was glued to your cell phone.

I also find it very thoughtful how you shield me from seeing the traffic ahead of me. Sometimes being able to see so far down the road is a little bit daunting, and your gigantic rear end blocking the unsightly road and scenery is strangely comforting. My world begins and ends with your hulking steel machine. Back in the olden days, when it was just us cars, I would sometimes see an accident or a fallen utility pole ahead of me, and become fearful. My driving suffered for this, as I would sometimes slow down or change lanes to accomodate. Now, with you weaving ahead of me as you eat an ice cream cone and scream at Dakota and Piper, I don't need to fear what lies ahead. I drive behind you, trusting that you, in your infinite wisdom, will see -- just in the nick of time -- that the bridge is out, and slam on your brakes. And your steadfast mountain of a vehicle will be there to cushion me.

With more of you thoughtful individuals on the road, I have recently noticed your attempts to protect the rest of us from the evils of four-lane roads and highways, and I thank you. Long ago, we used to drive side-by-side in each direction on these dangerous roads. But when one is confined to a single lane, it is easy to accidentally run off the road. I am trying to follow your shining example by driving with one wheel in one lane and the other in the next, cutting a straight and proud path down the center of the road and safeguarding the lanes. I need to work on my unsteady weaving, though, because sometimes those crazy people in fuel-efficient cars try to drive next to me -- or, god forbid, pass me. Perhaps it helps if the vehicle actually is too big for the lane, and maybe the weaving is easier if the automobile is too difficult for me to handle. Perhaps one day, after I have become skilled at applying eyeliner while driving and have acquired several hyperactive dogs to set loose in my vehicle, I can buy an SUV and become one of the Great Guardians of the American Road System.

Yes, I thank you, SUV drivers of the world. It truly is a safer place to drive, for you and for me.

This post brought to you by the City of Edmond, the Chevrolet Suburban, and the delightful individual Mr. Wastrel and I encountered on the way to the mall this afternoon.
*** *** *** *** ***

Update: Apparently my post was very well-timed. Good to see the ol' psychic powers are still in full working order.

Today's post is dedicated to Wastrel friend Wong Chee Wei, who was one of Mr. Wastrel's and my closest friends before he moved to California. Chee is from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, and went to Univesity of Central Oklahoma in the late '90s. He is the life of every party and can kick my ass at chess. He also kicks my ass at street hockey, but that is to be expected. Thanks to Chee, Mr. Wastrel knows quite a bit of useful Mandarin. I, on the other hand, can count to three, say "Thank you," "I love you" and "Fuck your mom, asshole" and ask for a tampon. Chee is a patient guy.

California is a big state, and there are probably a lot of Chee Wongs there, but it's worth a shot. Chee, are you out there?

Without "America's Next Top Model" to look forward to every week, I thought I would be spending my days finding something better to do than watch mindless makeover-porn reality shows. But I thought wrong.

You see, I am very excited about Bravo's new reality series, "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy." The fine people at Bravo originally wanted to do a show called "Wastrel Makes Over The Men of 'Ocean's Eleven' As Her Own Personal Chippendale Dancers," but I told them I didn't want my name on a show like that. I shot the pilot -- just to show them how bad and sexist it would be -- and they totally saw what I was talking about.

Anyhoo, back to "Queer Eye."

It seems only right, after hundreds of years of telling women that we look like crap and need more waxing, that men should now tell other men that they desperately need to go right out and buy the latest Italian shoes. After all, we women are doing more than our share to make this world an easy-on-the-eyes kinda place.

And who better to work on than straight guys? Unless you want to be the one to tell Martina the mullet ain't workin'. Protestations of unfair stereotyping there may be, but 94 percent of socks-with-sport-sandals crimes are committed by heterosexual men. (The remainder are perpetrated by small children who were dressed by their fathers.) Meanwhile, my hairdresser wears custom shoes, and his pants alone cost more than Mr. Wastrel's entire summer wardrobe (and Mr. Wastrel is luckier than some men in that I dress him up as I would my very own life-size Ken doll, which narrows his chances of wearing jeans such as these).

I will take with a grain of salt any assumptions about the impact of the sexual orientation gene on one's ability to dress oneself and decorate one's abode, but that doesn't mean I won't enjoy "Queer Eye" immensely. While pantyhose, stilettos, mascara, flat irons or other such patriarchal implements of aesthetic subjugation likely will not be involved in these makeovers, I am still hoping for a little highlighting, some uncomfortable dress shoes, and the odd bit of waxing. Is there some kind of undergarment for men involving metal wire and spandex? That would make for some good reality television, I tell you.

If it doesn't work out, the Wastrel Chippendale-dancer makeover show is waiting in the wings.

Blog works in mysterious ways.

Earlier today, I was working on enrolling in some classes at a local university to get my med school prerequisites out of the way. Then, as I was scrolling down my address bar to visit an internet news site, my hand slipped and I accidentally ended up on Bloghop.com. Since they were right there in front of me already, I glanced at today's newest sites. Lo and behold, there on my monitor lay a link to this brand-new blog by a guy who is doing his internal medicine residency at the University of Washington.

Big whoop, one might think, she found a blogger who's also pursuing a medical career.

Well, as it happens, he is at the University of Washington, where Wastrel would desperately love to go to med school. Sure, OU is a perfectaly adequate school, the Sooners are a fine football team, and it's right nearby. And sure, when I was but a teensy wastrel, scrubbing in at "Pink Hospital" (so named because my bedroom carpet was pink) and feeding my compliant little brothers chewable Vitamin C tablets smashed in honey, I had my heart set on a Harvard degree. But there are two factors that make UW the perfect place for the Wastrel's education.

Firstly, they have a top-notch women's health program. Big bonus points right there!

Equally importantly, Wastrel spent the loveliest year-and-a-half of her life in beautiful Washington state, and she can assure you that the sky actually becomes bluer, the grass greener and the air fresher the minute you cross the state line. Not to mention the highway (which is actually -- now here's a concept, Oklahoma -- free) is smoother than our turnpikes, and the person sitting in front of you at the movies is not wearing a ten-gallon hat.

I also must mention that my new favorite medical-profession blog is very well-written and does not utilize any hideous color schemes or scary spinning clip-art, unlike many med-school blogs which are made by scientific types with no eye for the aesthetic. Let me just say that neon-green Comic Sans on a black background is a big turnoff, people!

So, I will be closely following the "Hermes" blog while I am laboring through the hell that is calculus. And if any of you readers found my blog while looking up "medical school" in Google, rather than "avril lavigne free nude jpg" (where do these people come from??! Does the word "nude" even appear on my site?? Well, I guess it does now. Great!) I highly recommend that you go give that guy some traffic so he is encouraged keep writing about two of my favorite things, medicine and Washinton state.

It has been a very busy week at the Wastrel Headquarters. It's hard to play The Sims and blog -- hence the several post-free days. But my Simming has paid off. Madeleine Starlet has finally attained the coveted rank of superstar. Here is a picture of her getting in the fabu-licious pink flamingo limo.

The star over her head signifies her superstar status. (When I play as Madeleine, she still has the green diamond indicator thingie, so this picture was taken during her friend Fifi's game so you could see the star). All that hard work (and hard play) has paid off for Madeleine. She is now an A-list supermodel. And she owes it all to Homeslice's rejuvenator!

If you haven't visited his site, you need to. This guy is nothing short of a genius. Whether you just want a simple motives cheat or a completely different way to play your game, Simslice has a download for you. My personal favorite, which I am afraid to actually try because each of my little Sims is precious to me, would have to be the serial killer NPC. This is one of the few sites left where you can actually get decent object downloads for free! (And if you are feeling especially generous, or if you want something especially cool, he also accepts PayPal donations.)

Stoners and loners everywhere rejoiced last night when Adrianne, patron goddess of slurred speech, amusing non-sequiturs and jovially abused profanity was named "America's Next Top Model." Or at least the ones who watched my favorite cheesy reality TV show did.

I rejoiced as well, for the supercilious Elyse, while intelligent and witty, would have perpetuated the stick-thin stereotype that already is a scourge on the industry -- and the hyper, virginal Shannon was just too vanilla for words. We will not speak of Robin, for she is the devil incarnate (and probably the perpetrator of the lone "hate it" vote for my blog on Bloghop.com).

Adrianne was amusing at first, and endearing as the weeks wore on. Her impulsive silliness, her alternately worldly-wise and naive Midwestern ways, her campaign of offensively tacky ways to piss off Robin ... and her dogged perseverence in achieving the goal that she'd never given up on, ever after losing money to con artists. When she sneaked out of the hospital to avoid being eliminated during the third week, I thought "Damn, that girl deserves to win."

Adrianne, may you shine in mumbly, rock-and-roll glory forever! Long may your devil-horns wave -- from limousines, from the catwalks, from sea to shining sea. You are America, and, in your own words (and thick Chicagoland accent), it kicks so much ass.

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Coming soon -- a picture, freeze-framed from the Official Wastrel Television itself and brought to you in glorious .jpg format, of Adrianne throwing her signature devil-horns.

Breaking news! It seems Britney Spears is not a virgin! And she hasn't been for a couple years. Who knew?

I, for one, always believed that, despite the convincing gyrations, Britney was as pure as the driven snow. What are they going to tell us next? That there's no Santa Claus? That Avril Lavigne isn't really punk rock? That Michael Jackson molests little boys? That Bush was not the legitimate winner of the 2002 election?

I am shocked! Shocked!

I weep for the small children who watched Britney grind and jiggle and moan, believing that beneath all the body oil and silicone beat the heart of a wholesome All-American nun. If they can't believe the pop star who brought us such squeaky-clean hits as "I'm a Slave 4 U" isn't a virgin, what can they believe?

Not since the last Herbie movie has the indomitable spirit of the automobile been so captured on film as in "Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines," which the Sunday Night Movie Club watched last night. The true star of "T3" wasn't Arnold Schwarzenegger. It was Kate Brewster's trusty Toyota Tundra, which in true Toyota form survived all manner of damage from a convoy of unmanned emergency vehicles and an attack by an evil crane-driving cyborg chick.

While other vehicles, including a Lexus (also made by Toyota, but less rough-and-tumble) and a hearse, were rendered undrivable by the new-and-improved TX model's cyb-orgy of destruction, the lowly pickup soldiered on.

Even when it rolled into the cemetery, bullet-riddled and dented beyond recognition, it was still a working vehicle. As a Toyota driver who suffered through two Dodge products (and several more of my parents' smoky, malfunctioning Dodges), two transmission-impaired Fords and a used Oldsmobile whose starter lasted exactly one day, I don't need product placement to tell me that Toyotas rival The Ahnuld in their indestructibility.

It was fun to watch Schwarzenegger duke it out with the hot but malevolent TX (although you have to wonder, if the T-1 model really did come off an assembly line, why does it look older every sequel?). But the true "Rise of the Machines" was that of the resilient Toyota, without whose trustworthy engine and chassis, the protagonists never would have survived the first 30 minutes. Now look for "Terminator 4: Rise of Toyota's Quarterly Sales."

There is an old saying that goes, "Garbage in, garbage out." A lot of people use it as an excuse to tell others what to put in their bodies. But I've noticed that it doesn't really hold true. No matter what I put in, the same old shit comes out.

Now that I've got the gratuitous gross-out comment out of the way, I must admit that putting garbage into my body does have an impact. Years of delicious grease, spices and dairy products have resulted in the occasional ulcer and, once, a pretty goddamn painful case of appendicitis.

Now, a lesser person might throw in the towel, buy some Tagamet and swear off Thai food and Krispy Kreme. Not I! For I have discovered the fountain of stomach-youth! That fountain, my friends, is cabbage juice.

Vile as it may sound (and I assure you, it tastes worse than it sounds), cabbage juice has been proved in studies to cure gastric ulcers. And more importantly, because studies, after all, can be manipulated, it has been proven my me! At the tender age of 12, I developed an ulcer that mysteriously coincided with parental nagging (this coincidence is denied, of course, by the parental units). My parents, who also grind their own grain and make dubious, bordering-on-oxymoronic confections such as tofu cheesecake, forced me to drink several cups of cabbage juice a day. For awhile, I assumed this was, like the basement electroshock sessions and being forced to sleep in a coffin filled with hungry arachnids, their way of deriving glee from my tortured cries.

However (to my great surprise), after a few days, the ulcer had disappeared. Little did I know that they were keeping me healthy for the ritual sacrifice. But, that is beside the point. The cabbage juice really did work, and it was years before I had another ulcer.

Recently, however, I have had a lot of tummy-related problems. First gastric reflux, then appendicitis, now another ulcer. It's taken a couple of years to convince me to spend a week drinking several cups of poopy-diaper-smelling ooze each and every day.

But enough is enough, and I am taking the Cabbage Challenge. With a twist. While most proponents of the cabbage cure unrealistically recommend a several-day juice fast, I have decided that if cabbage truly is that magical fountain of stomach-youth, then the several cups of foul nectar per day should counteract my diet of donuts, cheese-filled pastas and City Bites' indescribable spicy wraps. Who will win? The valiant healing properties of the lowly cabbage? Or the mighty chili relleno? Let the games begin!

Some people wear their faith like a worn-in T-shirt. They take comfort in it, and it's a big part of who they are. They're the ones who wear it well. Shannon, on "America's Next Top Model," is one of those true believers. And while I don't agree with her, I can respect her commitment.

And then there's Robin. Smug, self-righteous, meanspirited Robin. Unlike Shannon, whose beliefs reside within, Robin's beliefs were all external. She used the Bible as a beach coverup -- for her hideous inside as well as her fuller-figured outside. Don't feel confident enough to pose in a swimsuit? Say you're not comfortable with men lusting after you. Don't like the competition? Say the other competitors are worldly and unladylike -- and, worse yet, going to hell.

We watched for weeks as Robin pulled the Bible card with abandon in order to get what she wanted and to justify her bad behavior. But a sheep suit gets itchy after a while, and the wolf eventually has to come out. Just when I could no longer stand the vile, contentious Robin, her inner wolf decided to leap out. And boy, was it big and hairy!

First off, when the contestants had a free morning, Robin wanted to go shopping. Adrianne, in true stoner style, wanted to visit Jim Morrison's grave. But a certain self-centered diva threw a tantrum and flat-out refused to compromise whatsoever. Elyse pointed out that Christians are supposed to be unselfish. Oops, Robin, your coverup is slipping.

Later that evening, the models were to hobnob with society boys at a fancy restaurant and take in a ballet. Adrianne, who hates ballet and normally would have gone to the fire exit and rolled herself and the cute janitor a fat doobie (this is purely conjecture), smiled bravely through the performance and entertained the French guys like a pro (no, not that kind of pro! Katie left on the second episode, remember?). Robin, on the other hand, did not like French food, and for reasons known only to her (because the cameras didn't offer up any corroborating evidence) decided the contestants' dinner companions were not gentlemen, but rather were lustful lechers. So, did she grin and bear it? Nope. Halfway through their evening out, she whipped out her Bible from God knows where and grimly read the Good Book through the entire night, sending off nasty rays of ill will. So much for "when in Rome ...". Her Christian Beliefs (TM) beach coverup slipped down a tad more.

Finally, the women were told of their next photo shoot. Surprising only those contestants who have no idea what models actually do to earn their daily bread, the judges told the women their next shoot would be done in the nude. Well, not exactly in the nude. They would be wearing G-strings and their decolletage would be covered by bands. Not surprisingly, both of the Bible thumpers, who somehow thought they could be supermodels without stripping down once or twice, declined to do the nude shoot. However, while the cameras weren't rolling, Robin threw off her Virtuous Pageant Queen coverup altogether and jiggled her bare bazooms at art director Jay (and, unbeknownst to Robin, at Tyra). Then she put the coverup back on and self-righteously told the cameras, tears streaming down her face, how it didn't matter if standing up for her Christian Values meant she was eliminated from the contest -- she was not going to pose nude.

Ultimately, she was eliminated, but it wasn't for her "values." Robin, like many pageant people, failed to notice that she doesn't live in a vacuum. People were not only listening to her canned sales pitch -- they were watching her offstage as well. As one of the judges remarked, Robin's bad behavior wasn't something the fashion industry needed. Her Christianity coverup had dropped -- to reveal that the reality-show contestant had no clothes (or at least no top, haha!).

Adieu, Robin! The show will not be quite so enjoyable now that there's no villain. You were what Puck was to Real World, what Jerri was to survivor, and what Senator Palpatine was to Star Wars. We will miss your supercilious Bible-quoting, your passive-aggressive diva ways, your protestations of modesty when the swimsuit photographer asks to see a little thigh, even though your boobs are hanging out (we're sure it has nothing to do with the fact you think your butt is big).

Yes, evil Robin, we will miss you. Because while the horniest virgin alive, Shannon, is still on the show, her beliefs are the real deal, not just a beach sarong to cover her butt and her true nature.

MSNBC, I have some words for you. And none of them are ready for prime time. Today, when I went to visit MSNBC's Web site, I was greeted by a huge, red, flashing banner that said "Stop Hillary!" and linked to a Newsmax "Hillary Deck of Cards" ad. Now I realize that the ad doesn't necessarily reflect MSNBC's politics (yes, that was choked-back laughter you heard). But they do have a choice in what ads they decide to run, and this blatantly partisan piece was pretty egregious. Now, I don't have a lot of choice in where I get my breaking news. Salon is great for political analysis, but for a quick overview of the day's events, I've always had choose between CNN and MSNBC (anyone with journalism training knows that Faux News has since time immemorial been just that).

Alas, I cannot visit MSNBC anymore. I will have to make do with the marginally acceptable stories of CNN. I let MSNBC slide with a simple letter to the editor when they hired a partisan Republican (whose aide -- the screwing of whom may have been why he had recently quit the House -- was mysteriously murdered in his office) to ruthlessly bash Hillary Clinton, Danny Glover, and generally anyone else he thought was more immoral than a murdering adulterer. But now I am launching a massive grrlcott of MSNBC.

If you don't like big flashy partisan ads on your news sites, grrlcott MSNBC. If you don't like it that a supposedly unbiased news station has a Republican politician with his own talk show, but the other side of the coin isn't represented, grrlcott MSNBC. And if you think it's a heinous travesty that someone who may have fucked his subordinate, brutally bashed her head in (unless you believe someone can get a 7-1/4 inch skull fracture and a hematoma from fainting) and then covered it up (with help from the media, who turned a blind eye), now has his own friggin' show while Gary Condit's name is ruined forever, GRRLCOTT MSNBC!

I know this is supposed to be a silly site, but the last few months have terrified me. The direction that our entire nation is taking is chilling. If the GOP and the conservative-owned media conglomerates, which are growing more powerful by the day, have their way, we are going to be the next Iron Curtain nation, the evil empire against which our former allies will unite and build nuclear defense. We've got to earn back the goodwill of the rest of the world, and, hell, the majority of Americans who voted against the Bush "presidency." And to do that, we need leaders and a media that promote peace, compassion and unity rather than world domination, hatred, xenophobia and partisanship.